


The Secret of the Leaky Cauldron

by cockroachclustersfan



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M, Leaky Cauldron, Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-07
Updated: 2020-10-07
Packaged: 2021-03-08 03:07:30
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 15
Words: 19,808
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26868658
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cockroachclustersfan/pseuds/cockroachclustersfan
Summary: Poppy Grey is a mysterious Gryffindor fourth-year raised by Tom at the Leaky Cauldron. She skates by unnoticed at Hogwarts, preferring to observe her life from the sidelines, until everything changes when she meets Ginny Weasley and makes her first friend at school. When Poppy falls for Ginny's brother George, she begins to reconsider what possibilities her future--and her past--might hold.
Relationships: George Weasley/Original Character(s)
Kudos: 2





	1. Chapter 1

Poppy woke up on September first with her face covered in blood and the wolves banging at her door. Groggily, she pulled her face from her desk, her head aching, and grab her wand from her robes. Heart racing, she flung the door opening, brandishing her wand at the intruder.

“Ye gonna blow me out the window, miss?” Tom gave a low chuckle and a wide, toothless grin. “Be impressive, considering yer not allowed to use your magic outside of school yet. Or did you go from 15 to 17 overnight?”

Poppy glared, stowing her wand in her pocket. “Do you have to knock so loudly next time?”

“You have a train to catch in an hour and yer covered in paint. Next time I’ll knock sooner.”

Poppy swore and spun around to the mirror hanging over her desk. So it wasn’t blood after all. Her face was covered in brilliant red paint, the result of falling asleep at her desk after a sleepless night of work. She turned to Tom, hoping her desperate look would cause him to have a little pity on her. He sighed, and waved his wand. Poppy felt the paint vanish, and smiled. 

“Thank you,” she said, gathering the remaining paints from her desk and placing them in the open trunk at the foot of her bed. She felt Tom’s eyes on her back as she busied herself with organizing her pallet and case of colors.

“Poppy?” His voice was kind. 

“Yeah?” Poppy grunted, carefully folding her brushes to avoid meeting his gaze.

“Why’d you stay up all night painting? Trying to make one last sale before you head to school?”

Poppy slammed the trunk’s lid shut to cover her deep sigh and turned to face him. “Nah,” she said, pulling the painting off the easel and handing it to him. “This one is for you.”

Tom smiled, admiring the rich field of flowers on the hillside. The poppies blew in the wind, and a butterfly drifted lazily out of the frame. “My own field of poppies. I love it. This one gets a special spot behind the bar.” His voice was a little higher than usual. “C’mon, now, let’s get you to school. I got you a ride to King’s Cross.”  
Poppy grabbed her trunk, dragging it down the stairs into the pub. Tom scuttled behind the bar and pulled several mugs from a shelf right behind his favorite perch, carefully setting the painting down. She smiled at his proud look. She knew he’d tell every costumer who came in for the next week about her paintings, even though most of the regulars already knew her.

The prospect of leaving Tom for another year at Hogwarts was painful. It wasn’t that her life at the Leaky Cauldron was perfect, but for Poppy, Hogwarts hadn’t turned out to the utopian experience everyone else seemed to enjoy. Once she’d arrived, she’d realized that she’d lived her life among adult wizards, sitting in the pub painting till the early morning while they downed pints of butterbeer, strolling through Flourish and Botts for new books to read, watching as they practiced new charms outside the ice cream parlor. She’d rarely met wizards her own age, let alone ones who had normal family lives. Now, she was beginning her fourth year, and she barely had any friends.

When the Sorting Hat had put Poppy in Gryffindor, she’d been secretly disappointed. The Gryffindors were so showy, so loud. They always had questions. Poppy didn’t like to be seen. She preferred to watch from the sidelines. An observant artist made better paintings. 

It didn’t help that everyone always had questions for her. Poppy wasn’t famous in the way that Harry Potter was, but anyone who knew much about Death Eaters knew about her father, and though Poppy rarely spoke of her family, they always seemed to come up. It had been a relief when Harry had arrived at school last year. It took some of the pressure off her.

After a quick breakfast, Tom introduced her to the Ministry official who’d agreed to take her and her things to the station. He was a tall black man with an earring. Poppy shook his hand, hoping he wouldn’t ask many questions. 

“Well,” Tom said quietly. “You’re going to have a great year, Poppy. You’ll write every week like usual?”

Poppy nodded, her throat suddenly tight. She was worried that if she spoke, she might cry. 

“I’ll see you at Christmas!” Tom’s cheeriness was forced. Many people thought he wasn’t the most observant, but he always knew when Poppy was struggling. “Now, come on. Let’s get you and Kingsley out the door.”

Tom insisted on loading her trunk into the boot of the long, dark Ministry of Magic car. After an awkward hug, Poppy climbed into the back, and they pulled off, leaving Tom standing, hunched and alone, on the curb.


	2. Chapter 2

Platform 9 ¾ was a shitshow, as it always was on the first of September. George paused after passing through the barrier, blinking to take it in. Owls crowed, and mothers fussed. Fred grabbed his arm, pulling him out of the way. “Do you really want Percy the Prefect to run over you on his way in?”

“Right,” George said. “Well, let’s wait over here for Ginny. We can’t let Percy be the one to introduce her to the Hogwarts express.”

After a tearful goodbye with their mother and an unsuccessful search for Harry and Ron, the twins helped Ginny onto the train, and began looking for an open compartment. 

“You don’t think they’re lost, do you?” Ginny said anxiously. 

“Remember Diagon Alley?” George reminded her. “Harry and Ron are probably just lost in their own trunks. No need to worry.”

Their unfruitful hunt, however, meant that the twins and Ginny were limited in terms of compartment mates. Lee Jordan had already taken a seat next to Katie Bell. Knowing how hard he’d been lobbying for her attention this summer, they avoided interrupting. 

Finally, they reached the last compartment of the train and saw three empty seats. A girl sat in the corner, a sketchpad balanced on her lap. She didn’t look up when they opened the door, so George cleared his throat. “Please may we sit, madame?” he said in an exaggerated imitation of Percy.

The girl turned to face him and nodded, and George recognized her. Poppy Grey, mystery girl of the fourth years. She had a round face with a pointed chin, tan skin, and large blue eyes. Over the summer, she’d cut her gray hair so it hung just above her shoulders in messy waves. George had heard all kinds of whispers as to why she had that strange, prematurely grey-black hair. Some people said it was because she was part veela, but others shot down the theory, pointing to her curvy figure as proof: a veela would never carry that much extra weight. He’d heard her father was a werewolf, or that she magicked her hair that way to hide its dull shade of brown. He certainly wasn’t going to ask. Poppy was famous for her tough exterior.

The twins stood back to allow Ginny into the car, then followed. Fred took the seat next to their sister, leaving George to sit down next to Poppy. “Ginny, this is Poppy,” Fred said. “She’s another fourth year in Gryffindor. Poppy, this is our sister, Ginny. She’s starting at Hogwarts this year.”

Poppy smiled and extended a hand towards Ginny. “Hey there. Excited for your first year of school?”

Ginny nodded. “A little nervous, though.”

“Don’t be,” Poppy said. “The magic isn’t hard. It’s figuring the people out that’s more difficult.” 

Ginny laughed. George examined Poppy more closely. Come to think of it, he wasn’t exactly sure who she spent her time with at school. He knew she didn’t live with her parents, instead staying at the Leaky Cauldron under the care of Tom, the old innkeeper. Perhaps he should make a better effort to learn about her, but he didn’t want to get his head chewed off. George cleared his throat awkwardly. “So, Poppy, how was your summer?”

“Oh,” She seemed surprised that anyone had bothered to ask her. “It was alright. Helped out at the inn. Read some new books. Painted a lot. I’m selling more and more these days.”

“You sell your paintings?” Ginny looked amazed, and Fred chuckled.

“You’ve never seen Poppy’s work. If you could do what she can, you’d draw too,” he said. “The paintings look like they’re alive without any charms or spells.”  
Poppy grinned, and George felt a tiny twinge of jealousy that his twin had gotten her attention first. Ginny leaned forward in her seat, straining to see Poppy’s sketchpad. “Can you draw something?”

Poppy looked flustered. “Erm, I suppose so. How about I draw you?”

Ginny nodded excitedly, and the two settled in, chatting about Poppy’s artwork and Ginny’s first year of school. Fred asked George to start a game of Exploding Snap, and the hours of the ride passed fairly peacefully, though George did occasionally wonder what had become of his brother and Harry.


	3. Chapter 3

For the first time in her life, Poppy enjoyed school. Ginny certainly helped. Though she was three years younger than Poppy and being best friends with a Weasley didn't do much for her social status, she was funny, smart, and fiercely protective, refusing to listen to any of the rumors about Poppy as they spread around school. The two spent hours in the empty charms classroom, with Ginny insisting on Poppy teaching her everything she knew. They laughed as Mrs. Weasley sent Ron a Howler for stealing his father’s car, and stayed up late trying to out-prank Fred and George. 

No longer did Poppy sit in the corner of the Gryffindor common room looking for someone to paint. In fact, sometimes she went days without painting at all, because she was actively participating in her life rather than just observing. She still made sure to get a sketch or two into her weekly letters to Tom, who seemed thrilled that she was enjoying school so much. Maybe this year would be different.

Six weeks into school, however, came a wakeup call. Ginny, who had been increasingly interested in following around Harry Potter like a puppy dog, insisted on waking up early one Saturday for a trip to the Quidditch pitch to watch the Gryffindors. Poppy agreed reluctantly, hoping she’d at least get some good outdoor sketches in. As they took their seats in the stadium and practice began, she settled on a subject—a red-haired beater by the name of George Weasley. Poppy thought he was nice to draw, but she’d never tell him that in person.

Hermione and Ron joined them, giving Poppy the opportunity to hide from Ginny the fact that she’d chosen her older brother as her model for the day by turning away from their conversation. Just as she’d started to get his outline right, however, her work was interrupted by a series of clicks.  
“What the bloody hell is that?” Ron said loudly, looking around. Hermione shushed him, pointing to a small, blonde figure near the bottom of the stands with a camera aimed at the pitch. Colin Creevey, another member of the Harry Potter fan club.

“Can he stop that?” Poppy said irritably. “It’s distracting.”

“C’mon, don’t be mean,” Hermione said. “He’s nice.”

Poppy raised her eyebrows, but Hermione had already called Collin’s name. He turned around, his facing splitting into a wide grin. “Guys! Guys! C’mon down!”  
Poppy let out an exasperated sigh, and Ron rolled his eyes in agreement. Glaring at them, Hermione led the way down towards the pitch. Ginny, keeping her eyes trained on the dark haired seeker in the air, said nothing.

“Do you want me to take your picture?” Collin asked eagerly. “I can do it with Harry and the team in the background!”

Poppy was opening her mouth to decline on the group’s behalf when she was interrupted by a loud series of barks from the pitch below. Her throat went dry. Marching onto the pitch was the entire Slytherin quidditch team, and they were glaring up at the Gryffindors in the stands. 

Crabbe, Goyle, and Malfoy were the ringleaders of the barking. “What are you doing, Creevey?” Malfoy asked. “Hoping to get a picture of Grey before the full moon? I heard she gets hairy around that time.”

“Shut up, Malfoy,” Ginny snapped. “That doesn’t make any sense, you stupid git.”

By now the Gryffindor team had landed and was walking over to the stands. Poppy groaned internally. Malfoy wasn’t nearly as far off base as Ginny thought, and she didn’t need more witnesses to her humiliation. This was why she’d spent the last two years blending into the shadows.

“Oh, a stupid git, am I? At least I’m not dumb enough to hang around with someone who’ll want to eat me once a month,” he crowed. Crabbe let out a long, drawn-out howl. Poppy worked hard to keep her face neutral. She was scared if she spoke, she’d cry.

“Malfoy, get off our pitch,” George snapped. Poppy hadn’t even noticed him move to the front of the team.

“I’ll go when the dog does,” Malfoy sneered. “Grey, this is a no-pet zone. Go on now. Or do you want me to tell your daddy on you?”

Poppy’s heart dropped like a stone in her chest. She felt cold all over. He couldn’t possibly know her father, she thought. He was just bluffing. Even Malfoy wouldn’t bring that up here. When she spoke, her voice was shakey. “Malfoy, stop it. Just leave me alone or I’ll hex you.”

“C’mon Grey, you wouldn’t hex an old family friend. How is your father these days? Still running around in the forest naked and getting Muggle sluts knocked up?” Malfoy’s voice was cold.

Poppy couldn’t take it any longer. Her vision went white, and all she knew at that moment was that she had to run. She stood, shoved past Ginny, Ron, and Hermione, and sprinted towards the edge of the forest, running as fast and far as she could. As the woods grew thicker and thicker, she dodged branches and roots, only stopping when she hit a fallen log and fell, hard.

Gasping for air, Poppy finally let the tears come. The sobs that ripped out of her chest were feral, but it didn’t matter. She was deep enough in the woods that no one would hear her. She leaned against the log that had just tripped her and thought about how stupid she’d been for ever thinking that having one friend at Hogwarts meant she would ever fit in here.

It wasn’t until a branch snapped behind her that Poppy realized she wasn’t alone. She whirled around, reaching for her wand, and her eyes fell on George Weasely, still in his Quidditch uniform and carrying his Beater’s club.

“Leave me alone,” Poppy snapped. “How dare you follow me?”

George threw up his hands. “You ran into the Forbidden Forest! It’s forbidden for a reason,” he said, waving his club. “I thought you might want some protection.”  
“If I wanted protection, I’d jinx you into a puddle of jelly right now,” Poppy spat. Then she sighed. She wasn’t mad at George. This was Malfoy’s fault.

“You want to talk about it?” George stepped over the log. “Shit, you’re bleeding.” 

Poppy looked down at her torn robes and the gash in her knee. “It’s fine. And no, I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Okay. You don’t have to tell me about it. But you also don’t have to handle everything by yourself all the time.”

Poppy felt her breath catch in her chest. Maybe George Weasley had a point. She scooted over against the log, leaving room for him to sit next to her. “Fine. Let’s talk about it. But you’d better not tell this to anybody. Ever.”


	4. Chapter 4

George was so amazed that he’d actually gotten her to say anything that for a moment, he didn’t know how to respond. He stood very still, staring, until she shook her head at him. “Well, will you promise to keep this to yourself?”

“Erm, yes,” George said, clambering to sit down on the soft earth next to her. He was very aware of how alone they were, and how close she was to him. She smelled like paint and the smoke of a fire on a brisk fall day. He willed his face not to turn red. “So what was going on with Malfoy? He seemed to really upset you back there. You know he’s full of shit.”

Poppy took a deep breath, closing her eyes. She seemed to be steeling herself for what she was about to say. “He wasn’t so full of shit this time. He had a point. And his father does know mine. I just didn’t think he would actually say anything.”

“I thought your father was dead?” George tried to say the words gently, but they still came out harsh.

Poppy laughed. “I deeply wish that were the truth. My father....my father is…not a very good man.”

“Okay,” George said slowly. 

“He’s…my father is…he’s…” Poppy stumbled, and George could tell she was close to tears.

“Hey, hey,” he said. “You don’t have to say anything.”

She shook her head. “Someone should know. I’m tired of carrying it alone. My father…my father is Fenrir Greyback.”

George felt his heart stop. He sucked in a breath, trying not to let the shock register in his face. “I didn’t know he had kids.”  
Poppy snorted. “That’s your biggest concern?”

George felt himself blush. “No—erm…”

“It’s okay,” Poppy said. “I wouldn’t know what to say either. He barely knows he has kids either. I’ve never met him that I remember. I picked ‘Grey’ as a last name because it was the closest I had to something.”

“And your mum?” George asked tentatively.

Poppy swallowed. “That’s more complicated. My mum was a Muggle. She was poor, didn’t finish school. She was a teenager living on the street when she started working at the Leaky Cauldron. She didn’t know what it was or anything. Her name was Fiona; I don’t know her last. Tom gave her the job and let her stay in one of the spare rooms. He was good to her.”

George thought about gruff old Tom, who people largely passed over when they saw him. He was hunched over and toothless, kind of a joke to many wizards. He had no idea he’d taken such good care of a Muggle he didn’t even know.

“My mum worked hard for Tom. She cooked and cleaned and liked to paint in her free time. But she also struggled. She drank a lot, a lot of strong stuff. Her life had been hard. She was pretty, and very young. She was popular with the men at the inn. It was surprising that...what happened…didn’t happen sooner.”  
George swallowed back a sour taste in his throat. He had a feeling he knew where Poppy’s tale was going, and he wasn’t sure he could bear to hear it. Still, he nodded, resisting the urge to reach over and touch her hand.

“Greyback came in to the inn one night, right before Voldemort disappeared. He was disguised as another wizard with Polyjuice Potion, there on Death Eater business. But my mum caught his eye. After he’d finished his work, he bought her a firewhiskey, then another. No one noticed. They spent the night together in my mum’s room, but sometime that night the potion wore off. He left early in the morning, and my mum told Tom and everyone she saw that the man she’d been with last night was a werewolf. 

“She knew nothing about wizardry, so no one believed her. They assumed she’d been drinking too much and dreamed it. Besides, it wasn’t even a full moon, and few besides Greyback chose to remain in their wolf forms for the rest of the month. No one thought Greyback was the handsome stranger. He kept coming back, always disguised. I don’t know why. He must have liked her. The last time he came…my mum told him she was pregnant.”

Poppy paused. Her tears from earlier were dry, and now she looked almost numb, staring straight ahead with her shoulders tense. Tentatively, George reached across the log, touching the back of her hand. It was cold. He laid his fingers over hers. Poppy didn’t respond, but he felt her loosen. 

“Greyback didn’t like it, of course. He’d enjoyed his time with my mum, though I’m sure she wasn’t the only woman he was seeing at the time. He had no interest in being a dad. He left and told her never to find him again. My mum was heartbroken. She kept going because she wanted me. Tom helped her, he explained the wizarding world to her, told her her kid would be a witch. She was enamored with it all. People still didn’t believe the father was a werewolf, but my mum always insisted he was. She loved magic, loved the idea of having a wizard for a kid. After I was born, she started working extra hard to make ends meet, selling her paintings for spare money. I think when she realized what she had wasn’t enough and she couldn’t live at the Cauldron forever was when things really went wrong.”

Poppy shuddered, and George, sensing that she was getting worked up, cautiously moved closer to her. He’d gone to school with her for three years, and he’d never known. All the rumors, all the whispers about her…they hadn’t been true, but they hadn’t been wrong either. She’d carried a history with her that no one had any idea about.

George squeezed her hand, and Poppy slowly turned hers over, returning the pressure. “You don’t have to tell me anymore,” George said. “You can stop when you want to.”

“It’s just getting good,” Poppy let out a dark chuckle. “My mum started trying to get in touch with Greyback, asking for money. She never cared if he did any of the father work, but she needed money. That was all she wanted. Tom helped her, he didn’t know she was seeking out a monster. Finally, the bloke who Greyback disguised himself as came in, and my mum got the truth out of him. He told her Greyback didn’t want anything to do with her, but told her how to find him. They met in a dodgy part of London, and my mum brought me all wrapped up to meet my father. She didn’t tell anyone that she was going.

“He was less than pleased to see her, I suppose. We don’t really know what happened after that. They found my mum’s body on the banks of a river, looked like it had been mauled to death by a wild animal. I was found wrapped up just like she’d left with me on the steps of the Leaky Cauldron with a bag full of gold big enough to buy me a room at the Cauldron for the next 17 years. And then Tom took me in, raised me as his own, spent years piecing together what happened. I was five by the time they realized who the werewolf was. He’s never contacted me, never come close to me. They keep charms up there, just in case. But he’s never come.”

By now Poppy’s voice was tight, and George could tell she didn’t have much more in her. He searched for words, but he didn’t even know where to begin. Instead he just held her close to him, breathing in her smokey-paint scent.


	5. Chapter 5

Poppy wasn’t sure how long they sat like that, alone in the woods. Finally, after what seemed like hours—or days—she heard a low growl and looked around, shocked as she realized the daylight was waning. 

“Did you hear that?” Poppy sat up, looking around the forest.

George smiled sheepishly. “No need to worry. It was just my stomach. I skipped breakfast this morning for Oliver’s drill practice.”

“Shit,” Poppy cried, leaping to her feet. She suddenly felt guilty. “I’m sorry, I didn’t realize you hadn’t eaten. Let’s get back. We can probably make lunch.”

George squinted at the blue-grey twilight sky above them. “Might be dinner by now.”

The forest seemed darker than when Poppy had run in blindly hours earlier, and she was grateful to have a companion as she stumbled through the thick brush. The air was heavy, thick with impending rain. She carefully avoided eye contact with George. 

After a few moments of silent walking, Poppy saw a dark figure in the woods ahead. She held out her arm, stopping George in her tracks. He looked at her quizzically. “What?”  
Poppy shook her head, jutting her chin towards the creature in the woods. George just stared at her. Oh, she thought. There was only one creature in the woods she’d be able to see but George wouldn’t. At least she didn’t have to be worried anymore. 

The threstral moved closer, its large, dead eyes swimming in the darkness. Poppy felt a warm trickle down her leg, and realized her cut from earlier was deeper than she’d thought. She’d barely registered the pain, but of course a threstral would always find blood.

“George,” Poppy said calmly. “We have company.”

George tried unsuccessfully to hide his bewilderment. Poppy knew he was too nice to let her know that he thought she was crazy, although she’d never thought of “tactful” and “George Weasley” as being remotely related terms. “I don’t see anything, Poppy. Are you okay?”

Poppy laughed. “I promise I’m not mental. It’s a thestral. You meet them every year. You just can’t see them?”

“And you can?”

“I mean, have you ever seen anyone die?”

“Erm…”

The threstral bent down and began gently licking the blood from her knee. Its tongue felt like sandpaper on her skin. She shivered. “They’re winged horses, kind of. They look sort of odd, but they’re sweet. They pull the carriages that bring us up into school. They won’t hurt you if you don’t hurt them.”

George swallowed. Poppy could see him flush beneath his freckles. “And you can only see them if you’ve seen someone die? Who…?” 

He trailed off, clearly embarrassed to ask. Poppy answered quickly, hoping to save his pride. “My mum, I guess. I don’t remember, obviously. But I’ve always been able to see them.”

“Oh,” George tentatively stretched out his hand, searching for the beast. “Am I close to it?”

Poppy stifled a giggle. He was about three feet away. “Yeah, just a little closer.”

George leaned forward on his toes. “A bit more.”

His arms windmilled as he fell to forest floor. The threstral grunted, seemingly joining in on Poppy’s laughter. George glared at her. “Not nice, Miss Grey. Not nice at all,” he sighed. “I wish I could see them.”

Poppy reached out a hand and pulled him up. “I’ll drawn one for you. Do you want to touch it for real now?”

George shot her a suspicious look. “I’ll leave you alone in the Forbidden Forest if you pull one on me again. You don’t want to start a prank war with the Weasleys.”

Poppy crossed her fingers over heart sincerely. She took his hand, larger than hers, with fingers rough from years of tinkering with fireworks and jinxes. Carefully, she guided him towards the threstral’s neck. 

George gasped as his palm made contact with the threstral’s warm body. He was so still, Poppy was sure she could hear his heartbeat if she listened hard enough. His brown eyes were wide with wonder, staring what he must have seen as empty air in front of him. Poppy almost felt like she was intruding. She made to move her hand away, but George shook his head, turning that intense gaze on hers. “Will you really draw one for me?”

“Of course,” Poppy said. “It’s easy.”

George raised his eyebrows. “Nothing you do could be easy, but you make it look that way.”

Whoa. Poppy felt herself blush, and then tore her eyes from his. What was she doing, blubbering on in the Forbidden Forest with him, telling him her life story? Accepting compliments from him? She knew better than anyone that vulnerability with men had consequences. Especially when you had your mother’s figure.   
Poppy straightened quickly, pulling her hand away from his. She gave the threstral a firm pat on the rump, sending him running. George jumped. She swallowed her guilt and strode towards the edge of the forest.

“Come on,” she called. “We’d better get back.”


	6. Chapter 6

George didn’t know what he’d done wrong. After the threstral encounter, Poppy barely spoke to him until they’d reached the front doors of the castle. They had missed dinner indeed, but she’d declined his offer to knick some food from the kitchens. Instead, she’d said she wanted an early night and hurried off to Gryffindor Tower. But when George had come up a few hours later, she was sitting in an armchair in the corner, sketching furiously. She was still there when George went to bed at midnight.

Over the next month, George hardly spoke Poppy at all, but she constantly took up space in his mind. He couldn’t stop staring at her back in their double Potions class on Monday afternoons. His work suffered for it, leading Snape to dock even more points from his assignments than usual. Lee Jordan and Fred got him in on a campaign to out-prank Peeves, which was fun, except every time they sat up late in the common room planning, he was acutely aware of Poppy’s presence in the corner, her quill sketching furiously. She carefully avoided George’s eyes.

As autumn settled in and the days got shorter, George tried to forget about that day in the Forbidden Forest. But something about the way she’d spoken to him, so straightforward and honest about her pain, neither seeking sympathy nor honeycoating her life story, the feeling of her small, warm hands on his as she guided him towards the threstral’s neck, the smokey scent of her hair, lingered in his mind. 

He awoke early the day after Halloween, restless after a night of imagining Mrs. Norris shock-still and hanging from a candleholder. The Chamber of Secrets is open. He’d heard murmers in the packed common room that perhaps the twins had been behind the incident. After all, their rivalry with Filch was stuff of legend. But neither George nor Fred was capable of something that evil. 

George looked at the four-poster next to him. Fred was snoring gently, an arm thrown over his eyes against the grey morning light. George would leave him to it. He rose and dressed quickly, then slipped out of the dormitory towards the Great Hall. As he left Gryffindor Tower, he saw a familiar redhead standing on the stairs. “Ginny!” George called. “Fancy a bit of breakfast?”

His sister jumped, spinning around to face him. “What?”

“Hey, hey. It’s just me. What’s got you so jumpy? C’mon, let’s get some food.” The two fell in step down the stairs. George could sense something odd in Ginny’s demeanor. She seemed nervous. He tried to alleviate the tension. “How’re classes going? I heard you’re not bad at Charms.”

Ginny managed a smile. “I like them alright. Snape is a git, though.”

“Ah, my dear sister. You’re not the first one to come to that conclusion, are you?” George laughed. “He’s a right prat. Even if you’re perfect in his class he’ll find a reason to snap at you.”

The two entered the Great Hall, taking seats at the very end of the table. There were few students awake, but the scattered wizards at the long tables looked around nervously, clearly still shaken from the night before. “What about Filch’s cat, eh? Crazy, innit? Who do you think he’ll snog at night now?”

Ginny froze, halfway through reaching for a piece of buttered toast. Her eyes filled with tears. “Oh George, how could you say something like that? It’s awful, just awful.”

George was taken aback by her emotion. “I’m sorry, Gin. I was just saying that Filch doesn’t have much else going for him. The cat’ll be fine, Madam Pomfrey’ll have her sorted out in an instant.”

Ginny shook her head, sniffing. “I don’t want to talk about this anymore.”

“Alright, alright,” George threw up his hands in surrender. “Well, erm…how’s your friend? Poppy?” he asked cautiously.

Ginny shot him a suspicious look. “Why do you want to know? Isn’t she in your year?”

“Erm, yeah,” George struggled to keep his voice casual. “I, um, was just wondering what she’ll be getting up to today. I thought maybe I could nick her Transfiguration homework. I can’t turn my teacup into a hedgehog for the life of me.”

“If you wanted to know that, maybe ask her yourself,” Ginny said, reproachful. “You might be too thick to realize it, but I can see you stealing looks at her every chance you get. And her constantly sketch—nevermind.” She stopped herself mid-sentence.

George’s heart skipped a beat. “What is it, then? Sketching what?”

“I don’t see how that’s any of your business,” Ginny sniffed, sipping her tea. “Anyways, I’ll tell her you’re looking for her.” She stood quickly, and stormed out of the Hall, leaving George alone.

He sat back, bewildered by his sister’s odd behavior. Ginny just loved cats, that was all. And it was normal for a younger sister to poke fun at her brother. She was fine. 

By mid-afternoon, George had nearly forgotten his strange breakfast. The Gryffindor common room was flooded with students trapped inside by the rain and too spooked by the previous night’s events to venture into the rest of the castle. After a few hours of concocting a plan to nick a few of the large pumpkins from Hagrid’s patch and betwitch them to clog up the entrance to Snape’s office with his brother and Lee, George decided to venture out of the tower to find a quiet empty classroom to get some actual homework done. 

His head was throbbing, and he was days behind. He shook off Fred’s offer to accompany him, feeling like he needed the time alone. As he climbed through the portrait hole, however, he felt someone following him. He spun around. “Fred, I told you--”

Poppy’s stormy blue eyes stared back at him. “Sorry, didn’t mean to bother you. I can bug off if you’d like.”

George felt his skin turn a deep shade of red. “Erm, no, sorry,” he stammered. “I thought you were my brother. I was just going to find a quiet place to do some homework.”  
“Oh, alright then,” Poppy said. Her voice was tight. “I guess I’ll come along, if that’s alright? Ginny said you needed help with Transfiguration? And I wanted to talk to you about something.”

His heart pounded in his ears. He suddenly felt very warm. “Sure, yeah. Uh, wanna go to the North Tower? I like it there when it rains.”

Poppy nodded, not breaking his gaze. “Lead the way.”

They walked in silence for a few moments. George felt like he should say something, but his head seemed empty of words. “Erm, how’re things at the Cauldron?” he said lamely, then cursed to himself. She clearly didn’t like to talk about her life.

Poppy sighed awkwardly. “Pretty good, you know. Tom writes me every week. He’s a bit peeved that I haven’t been keeping up with my weekly sketches to him.”  
George frowned. “All you ever do is draw and paint and you don’t have anything to send him?”

Maybe he was imagining things, but he was pretty sure Poppy blushed. “Yeah, yeah I do. I like to keep some for myself. And it’s for class sometimes,” she spoke quickly. “Anyways, how’re things for you at home? Your mum still mad at Ron?”

George laughed. “Nah, I think she’s over it,” he said, opening the door to the North Tower stairs and stepping back for her to go up ahead of him. “She’s focused her energy on fussing over Ginny instead.”

“Hmm.” Poppy climbed the spiral steps, taking a seat in the round classroom at the top. Rain pounded the windows encircling the walls. “That’s actually kind of what I wanted to talk to you about.”

“My mum?”

“No, you prat. Ginny.”

“Oh,” George said. “Alright. What is it, then?”

Poppy twisted her mouth from side to side, clearly trying to find the right words. Her gray-black hair was pulled off her face in a low, messy bun today. A few straggly tendrils surrounded her face. George thought she looked very, very good. After a few moments, she spoke. 

“She’s been acting—odd. Really odd. It just doesn’t make sense.”

“I mean, it is Ginny,” George said. “She is a little mental.”

Poppy rolled her eyes. “Shut up. Like, unusually odd. She’s always writing in this diary. I don’t know where she got it, but when she can’t find it she just gets so worried. She says it’s important.”

“Okay,” George said slowly. “I mean, she’s never really kept a diary before, but maybe it’s just really personal.”

“Maybe. But once I asked to borrow a page from it to draw on, just because I was out of parchment and I didn’t want to go upstairs. And she got, like, angry. She told me it was hers and hers alone and I didn’t need to use it too.”

“Sounds a bit pratty.”

“I mean, it wasn’t very nice, but she also seemed so worried,” Poppy said. “And that’s not it, either. She’s been crying about Filch’s cat all day. It’s weird how upset she is.”

“Oh, well that’s easy,” George said. “Ginny loves cats.”

“I mean, I like cats too. But I’m not crying for Filch’s.”

“Poppy.” George raised his eyebrows, trying to reassure her. “Ginny is sensitive. She’s young. Sometimes she doesn’t make sense. Let’s just keep an eye on her for a while, alright? We’ll see where she is in a week or so.”

Poppy grimaced, but nodded in agreement. George’s heart sank. He had to admit that he was a bit let down that all she’d wanted to talk to him about was his sister. But what else was there to say? She’d clearly rejected his compliment that day in the forest. 

He started pulling out his books, hoping that they could at least study together for a while. Poppy did the same, grabbing her copy of Intermediate Transfiguration. She cleared her throat. “So, Ginny said you needed help with your teacup? I thought you did it alright in class the other day. You know I’m shit at it.”

Shit. What a stupid lie. Of course Ginny had told her. He was going to put wartcap powder in her socks next chance he got. “Oh. Yeah. Erm…I just…”

Poppy raised her eyebrows. A smile danced around the corners of her mouth. George sucked in a breath. The smell of smoke and paint was overpowering. The rain, the chill in the drafty tower, her frets about Ginny suddenly felt very far away. “I…I didn’t need help with the spell, alright?”

Poppy snorted. “I figured. What is it, then?” She pulled out the paintbrush she’d been using to hold back her hair, and it tumbled down around her face in silvery black waves. “Wanted to ask me if I’m the one who Petrified Mrs. Norris with my terrifying half-werewolf powers? You know it doesn’t work like that, right? No full moon frolics for me, Weasley.”

George shook his head quickly. “No, ‘course not.” His mouth was very dry. “I…actually, I’ve been waiting on that threstral drawing from you. I’ve felt like you hadn’t wanted to speak to me since…that day. I was wondering if I’d done something wrong.”

Poppy took a deep breath, then released a long puff of air through her mouth. “No, you’re quite all right. Didn’t do a thing wrong.”  
Her voice was too high to seem honest.

“It’s alright if I did. I won’t bother you again. I don’t ever plan on telling anyone what you said to me. I know I make a lot of jokes, but I really can keep secrets.”

Poppy stood up, striding over to one of the tall windows. She turned her back to him, staring out at the rain. 

“I trust you,” she said, so quietly he almost didn’t hear her. “I don’t trust myself as much.”

“Oh.” George wasn’t sure what to say.

“C’mon,” Poppy said. She turned her head to look at him, throwing her hair over her shoulder. “Watch the rain with me?”

He rose slowly and joined her at the window. Outside, the grounds were dim. The lake swelled, and the giant squid drifted lazily off the bank. Hagrid’s pumpkins looked bulbous next to his little hut. George smelled the wet scent of the storm, mixed with Poppy’s familiar smell. He shivered a bit. “Are you a fan of rain, then?”  
Poppy nodded sincerely, her eyes glued to the fat droplets rolling down the window. “Loved it since I was a kid. I know it seems glum, but I love the smell, how gray everything gets,” she said. “My room at the Cauldron is the top floor, with these huge windows. In London like that you rarely feel very free. But when it rains no one’s on the street, and it’s like you could run for miles and never see another person.”

George didn’t think he’d ever stayed in London for more than a day. “At my home, the Burrow, you can get on your broom and fly and no one will see you for hours. There’s so much room. We really only need to see other people if we choose to go into the village.” 

Poppy turned to look at him. Her eyes seemed to meld with the sky outside, taking on a gray quality. “That sounds so peaceful.”

“It can be a bit lonely at times,” George said. “But I’m never really alone when I have my brother.”

She nodded, not breaking her gaze. “I used to want siblings. You can get to feel a bit bored as a child, living above a bar. I’ve never….stayed in a house with a normal kitchen and a mother and father, you know?”

George swallowed. “Stay with us,” he blurted out. “At Christmas. Or in the summer, you can come visit over break. You can kip in Ginny’s room. She’d love it, always complaining about being the only girl in the house.”

Poppy looked taken aback. Did he imagine it, or was she flushing a bit? “I couldn’t impose…”

“You wouldn’t be. My mum would love it.”

“Hmm.” She looked thoughtful. “Well, I’ll be spending Christmas with Tom. But maybe in the summer?”

George’s stomach flipped, and he struggled to contain a smile. “Yeah, definitely. Now, do you want to have some fun?”

Poppy cocked her head suspiciously. “Define ‘fun.’”

“Well,” George said. “What do you think about wet-start fireworks?”


	7. Chapter 7

Levitating Dr. Filibuster’s Fabulous Wet-Start Fireworks into the rain and watching them explode on contact turned out to be the perfect way for the students of Hogwarts to release some stress after the previous night’s events with Mrs. Norris. Students rushed to their windows and out under the courtyard overhang to watch the Catherine wheels dance across the sky. After about ten minutes, George grabbed her wand arm. 

“C’mon, we gotta go.”

Poppy turned, giving him the pouty face she reserved for Tom. “But we were just starting!”

“Poppy, do you really want Filch to track down the source of these? Particularly in the state he’s in?” George laughed, shaking his read hair out of his eyes. “C’mon, rebel. Let’s go.” 

He lead her down the stairs, both struggling to contain their laughter. When they reached the door at the bottom of the stairs, Poppy heard a thundering voice. “WEASLEYS! WEASLEYS! I’LL HAVE YOUR HEADS FOR THIS!!”

Poppy couldn’t hold it in. She snorted. George was shaking with silent laughter. He grabbed her hand and hissed at her. “Shh, you’ll get us both expelled. C’mon!”

He stuck his head out the door. “All clear,” he whispered, keeping a tight grip on her hand. They streaked into the corridor. Footsteps echoed nearby. “Shit. We need a place to hide together.”

Suddenly, a door appeared on the wall in front of them. Had that been there before? Poppy wasn’t sure. But Filch’s footsteps around the corner were growing louder. George flung open the door, and yanked her inside. Poppy stumbled, then hit the ground, headfirst. “Oof. Ergh, that hurt.”

Her head was pounding. She sat up, stars swimming before her eyes. George crouched in front of her, his brow furrowed. “Merlin, Poppy, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to pull you so hard. Are you okay?”

Poppy put one hand to her forehead, rubbing the knot forming there. She let out a deep breath, trying to get her bearings. “Where are we?”

“Not sure,” George looked around. “I think it appeared when I said we needed somewhere to hide. I don’t understand. Here, there’s somewhere you can lay down.”  
He carefully guided her to her feet, walking her gently through the small room. The ceiling was painted a deep velvet blue, and gold stars danced on the walls. Two hammocks, seemingly suspended in midair, hung side by side in the center of the room. George helped her into one of them, then gently ran his thumb over the lump on her head. 

“I’m a right git, aren’t I? Almost got you hung by Filch, knocked you in the head?” His warm brown eyes were full of concern. 

Poppy tried to shake her head, but the movement made her nauseous. “Worth it. Totally. The most exciting afternoon I’ve had in a minute. I’ll be alright soon.”

“Well, I’ll stay here with you ‘til then,” George said, swinging his legs into the hammock next to hers. His face was barely two feet from her nose. She could’ve touched it with her fingers. He put his hands behind his head, staring up at the exquisitely decorated ceiling. “It’s a nice place, really. We should come back sometime.”  
Poppy agreed. Suddenly, she felt a rush of shame in her stomach. She’d pushed George away that day in the forest when he’d done nothing but try to help. What was the worst that could happen if she was just his friend? 

She took a deep breath. “Um, I actually wanted to tell you something.” she said. 

“Yeah? What’s that?”

“I finished your threstral drawing. A couple dozen, actually. I did quite a few.” Poppy looked over at him, trying to gauge his reaction, but he didn’t meet her gaze. From this angle, she had a perfect view of his side profile, a sharp nose and soft lips. 

“Oh?” George finally turned to face her, and his face split into a wide grin. “When do I get to see them?”

“Erm, I guess…I could give them to you next week. When we check in about Ginny?” She felt her face flush. There, that was good. A casual boundary. A commitment to see him again, but not too soon. Space. Always lots of space.

George nodded. “Looking forward to it.”

And so it was. Poppy and George came back to the little room near the North Tower every week on Sunday afternoons, always under the pretense of talking about Ginny’s odd behavior. They sat in their hammocks, doing homework, reading, or telling each other stories about their childhoods. Poppy always carefully avoided sharing anything too personal, and George never asked. He seemed content to stay at surface level as long as she needed it. She was grateful for that.

The first threstral drawing she brought him was a simply anatomical sketch. George acted like it was precious art. “This is really what they look like? They’re almost beautiful.”

Poppy laughed. “Most people find them scary.”

“Not me.” 

She brought him a drawing every Sunday, detailing in on the face, the hooves, the spiny ribcage, but kept the growing pile of drawings of him to herself. Some were simply rough sketches, others vibrantly colored paintings. In some he played Quidditch, his strong arms gripping the Beater’s club, or laughed near the fire in the common room with Fred. Or he lay in his hammock, his perfect side profile sharply defined. Poppy always vowed that she would bring him one, but always ducked out at the last moment, settling on yet another threstral study.

Weekend afternoons became her refuge. Poppy found herself dreaming of the little room with George in her classes, and her work suffered a bit. She settled herself next to Ginny in the common room at night, timing her glances at him when her friend was looking the other way. Poppy carefully avoided looking too closely or being caught looking at him when others were around. George was already a Weasley. He didn’t need rumors about her dragging his reputation down.

One afternoon near the end of term, the two were curled up in their hammocks, Poppy snuggled underneath her cloak for extra warmth. George had been fidgeting with a prank wand, attempting to charm it to pull new jokes. Poppy was observing quietly, her quill creating a lazy sketch of his hands hard at work. They sat in comfortable silence, as they so often did. She was warm and comfortable, and she felt a fuzzy sleepiness begin to fall over her. Her eyelids began to droop. She didn’t even notice as her parchment slipped from her hand to the floor. 

Poppy was walking along the River Thames on a cold night. Fog blanket the wet, dirty banks. The air was thick with the smog of nearby factories and something else, something more earthy. Above her, a full moon hung in the sky. Rotting leaves made the ground beneath her feet slippery. Ahead of her, she heard a low growl. A wild dog, perhaps? Or a wolf?

Suddenly, Poppy realized where she was. Her heart began to race. Nausea rose in her chest. She tried to turn around, but her feet propelled her forward. No. Not again. Don’t make me see this again.

She rounded a bend, and the thin, inhuman figure rose from the brush ahead with a snarl. When Poppy cried out, her voice cracked. “Stop! Stop it!” 

The grey werewolf turned away from the mangled body in the mud, springing towards. Poppy could smell his foul scent, feel his wet breath on her skin. It was over, he was going to kill her too—

“Poppy! Hey, Poppy!”

Poppy sat up, thrashing blindly. Her heart felt like it was going to explode. She felt warm hands on her, and instantly reached for her wand. “No! Don’t touch me! Don’t touch me!”

Suddenly the earth shifted beneath her, and she was falling. Cold stone stung her skin. Above her, two brown eyes stared down on her. “Hey, it’s okay. I’m not going to touch you. Do you know where you are?”

Poppy knew that voice. Slowly, she drew in a breath. The roaring in her ears faded. She sat up, drawing her knees into her chest. She was suddenly very cold. George kneeled on the floor next to her. When he spoke, his voice was soft.

“You fell asleep. I think maybe you had a nightmare. And when I tried to wake you, you fell.”

Poppy nodded, then swallowed. Her throat was dangerously tight. George stood, grabbing her cloak from the hammock and handing it to her to wrap around her shoulders. He looked around for something else, and suddenly a goblet appeared, full to the brim with water. It wasn’t until Poppy had drank the entire thing that she felt ready to speak. 

“Sorry about that. I was just…dreaming. It happens sometimes.”

George offered a small smile. “I think dreaming happens to all of us.”

Poppy nodded. She attempted a weak grin. “Yeah, just can be a bit much for me sometimes. Anyways, I don’t really want to talk about it.”

Another signal of vulnerability in front of George Weasley. Not good. She needed a quick recovery. Luckily, George was nice enough to change the subject.   
“Well, once you dozed off I thought I would let you sleep,” he said, pulling a piece of parchment from his robes. “But you dropped this and I couldn’t help noticing how familiar these hands looked.”

Shit. Poppy’s face felt like it was on fire. The drawing. His hands, turning the wand over and over. The scar over the back of his left knuckles. His fingers graceful yet imperfect at the same time. She was not ready for George to see this kind of drawing. “Erm, yeah. I was just watching you work earlier.”

He raised his eyebrows. “Do you mind if I keep it? I really like it. I can add it to my threstral collection.”

“Oh. Okay. Yeah, sure.” No, don’t keep it. Let me keep this part of you for myself.

George smiled, and pocketed the drawing once more. He stood up, offering her his hand. “I wanted to ask you something.”

“Oh. Go ahead.” Poppy was positive her she was going to evaporate on the spot.

“I was wondering if you’d like to come watch the Gryffindor versus Slytherin Quidditch match on Saturday? Ginny told me you don’t usually go, but it’s a big match, and I thought you might like it.”

Mentally, Poppy breathed a sigh of relief. “Hmm. Well, Weasley, you know I’m pretty busy. But I’ll consider penciling it into my schedule.”


	8. Chapter 8

The morning of the match dawned bright and clear. Wood woke Fred and George early, dragging them to the pitch to talk strategy. By the team stepped onto the grass, George wasn’t sure he wanted to protect Oliver from the bludgers anymore. The left half of the stands were packed with red and gold. George squinted against the sunlight, scanning the bleachers for a mop of silver hair. 

“Harry! Harry! Hey!” 

George smirked as he recognized his sister’s voice. Of course Ginny wanted Harry’s attention. He followed her cries until he found her red head, a crimson scarf wrapped around her neck. Next to her, looking around nervously, was Poppy. Her hair was held back by a gold handkerchief, and it looked like she’d allowed Ginny to write a “G” on her cheek in red lipstick. Ginny poked her as George met her eye, and Poppy turned to smile at him.

Suddenly, George felt a lot more confident about the match.

His confidence wore out quickly when it became evident that one of the Bludgers was trying to kill their Seeker. The twins spent the first few moments of the game bodyguarding Harry. By the time Wood called a timeout, they were exhausted, and Harry agitated.

“You have to back off,” he said heatedly. “I’ll never catch the bloody snitch with you two following me.”

Fred and George exchanged meaningful looks. “It’s kind of our whole job, mate,” Fred said. “We’re supposed to be making sure the Slytherins are getting hit, not you.”  
“Seriously, I’m fast. I can handle it on my own.”

“Don’t be thick, you prat,” George interjected. “That’s a rogue bludger. It’ll kill you if it gets the chance.”

Harry sighed. “Wood, you have to call them off.”

Oliver squeezed his eyes shut as if hoping that when he reopened them, the team would disappear. “Fine,” he said, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Fred, George, bug off. Harry, dodge the bloody bludgers. Let’s go.”

George was fuming as he stalked back onto the pitch. “Are they effing serious?” he muttered to Fred.

“I know, mate. What in the name of Merlin do they think they’re doing, playing with Harry’s life out there?”

The air felt dangerously still as George kicked off the hard ground. He could hear the crowd buzzing like bees below him. A chilly breeze whipped across his face, but he hardly cared. His biggest concern was that all seven members of the team make it safely to the ground after the match.

The next ten minutes passed in a tense blur. When Lee screamed that Harry had caught the Snitch, George nearly sagged off his broom with relief. He had just landed both feet on the ground when he heard the crowd gasp, and his heart dropped like a stone into his stomach. Harry. 

George turned and sprinted to the spot where the Seeker had just landed. “HARRY! HARRY!” 

His twin met him there. Harry’s face was white, and his arm bent at a grotesque angle. Madam Hooch, her face red with rage, stalked over to them. “M’boy, that’s a broken arm. Let’s get you to Madam Pomfrey. I’ll be looking into that bludger.”

“Why didn’t you do that before it blew him out of the bloody sky?” George replied heatedly. Shit. Of course his mouth would get him in trouble.

Madam Hooch shot him a venomous look. “Detention, Weasley. 8 o’clock tonight. On the pitch.

Rage boiled in George’s chest, but he swallowed it down. Didn’t need to make it any worse than it already was. It was best that he walk away now. He turned on his heel and stalked towards the locker room as the ridiculous new Defense Against the Dark Arts professor descended on the scene. As he swung the door open, his twin caught up with him.

“Well, there’s good news,” Fred said. 

“Yeah, and what’s that?”

“You won’t have to do detention alone.” Fred’s tone was cheerful. “I called Lockhart a thick git, and Hooch sentenced me too.”

George let out a tight laugh. It often felt like his brother was the only one in the world who understood him. With Fred around, detention was hardly a punishment. “Thanks, mate. I owe you one.”

Fred wiggled his eyebrows suggestively. “Actually, you owe me two. One for today and one for using some of our valuable Mr. Fillibuster’s stock with Grey.”

George worked very hard to arrange his face in a neutral expression. “You’d’ve done the same! Besides, I was simply adding some estrogen to our band of merry troublemakers.”

Fred winked at him.

Six hours later, at twilight, the twins were walking down the grassy hill towards the pitch. Madam Hooche, donning a dressing gown, stood with her arms crossed, offering them her best stern stare. 

“Madame….” Fred swooped into an elaborate bow.

“…How may we be of service?” George put on his best French accent.

Madam Hooche’s arms remained folded, but the corner of her mouth twitched. She pointed at Hagrid’s small cabin rising out of the hillside behind them. “Hagrid has asked for some help dressing his vegetable garden for the snow coming soon. You’re to stay until you’re done, you boys hear me?”

“Excellent. A night with Hagrid, George? Can you think of much better?” Fred slapped his back.

“I cannot, Fred. Thanks, Madam! See you next match!” George threw in a wink for good measure. He was pretty sure he saw a twinkle in her eye.

But when the twins knocked on Hagrid’s door, they could see that Madam Hooche’s good mood hadn’t spread across the grounds. The large man flung open the door, looking around furtively. His beard had biscuit crumbs in it.

“Whose out there, eh? Whaddya want?”

Fred waved at him. “Down here, Hagrid. Your dutiful servants for the evening.”

“Oh,” Hagrid grunted. “You two. Well, c’mon then. Cuppa?”

As the gameskeeper turned into his kitchen, the twins exchanged incredulous looks behind his back. They hadn’t exactly expected detention over a cup of tea. Filch would’ve been apoplectic. 

Fred and George followed Hagrid into the hut, taking a seat at his kitchen table. He set two cups of tea before them, the hot liquid sloshing onto the stained wood, then collapsed in a seat across from Fred. He looked exhausted.

“Erm, Hagrid,” George said, a little nervous. “Are you alright?”

“Oh, me?” Hagrid said, shakily dumping a spoonful of sugar into his cup. Most of it hit the saucer. “I’m quite fine. Just worryin’ bout Harry, y’know? And stuff goin’ on at the school…that worries me a bit too, I won’ lie.”

“Ah, yes,” Fred said. “It was just Mrs. Norris though. Out of our hands innit?”

Hagrid let out a deep sigh. “I s’pose. ‘N Harry’s bones’ll grow back soon enough.”

“What?” The twins’ voices echoed in unison.

“Er, yeah,” Hagrid seemed genuinely surprised that they didn’t know what had happened. “That Lockhart bloke, he cast some spell and took the bones right out o’ Harry’s arm. He’s spendin’ the night up in ‘ospital wing with Madam Pomfrey.”

“Blimey!” Fred cried. “Hagrid, you have to let us off detention to go see him! It was our fault he ended up there in the first place. We never should’ve let him call us off in the match.”

Hagrid shifted uneasily. George could tell he was weighing the benefits of a visit to Harry against free wizarding-student labor. His desire to see Harry won out, and he agreed to escort them up to the castle to visit their friend.

When they arrived at the hospital wing, though, it seemed Harry already had a few visitors. Standing outside the door, arguing in low voices, were Ginny and Poppy.  
“Oh, c’mon Gin,” Poppy hissed. “Potter’ll be fine, but if you really want to see him, you can just go in. It’s not a big deal.”

Ginny caught a glimpse of the newcomers over Poppy’s shoulder. She looked grateful for an out. “Fred! George! Hagrid!”

Poppy whipped around to look at them. She’d wiped the lipsticked G off her cheek after the match, but the gold scarf still held her hair back. Her eyes looked vividly blue. She assessed the trio, her eyes sliding over Fred and Hagrid and resting on George. Her mouth twisted into a smile. 

“Our sister dearest!” Fred galloped over to Ginny, attacking her in a bear hug. “You here to see our Potter boy too?”

George fixed his eyes on Poppy. “And Grey? Also part of the Harry Potter fan club now?”

Poppy stuck her tongue out at him. Her cheeks dimpled as she smiled. George’s heart backflipped.

Ginny was blushing a deep shade of scarlet as she stammered to defend her presence to her brother. If any of her hexing practice had been half as good as George had heard, Fred had better watch his back in the hallways. Poppy looked quickly at her friend, then gracefully intervened. “I’m actually here to see Potter.”

Fred wheeled on her. George knew his brother didn’t believe her for a second, but he seemed to be enjoying the show. “Oh, is that it?”

“Yep.” Poppy stuck her chin out defiantly. “We’re mates. I dragged Ginny along, that’s all.”

Fred raised his eyebrows. “That true, Gin?”

But Ginny didn’t seem to hear him. She’d suddenly turned a ghastly shade of green. She spun on her heel and sped down the corridor, headed for the staircase.   
Poppy’s eyebrows knit together into a firm line as she made to run after her friend. “Ginny! Wait!”

“Leave me alone!” Ginny sobbed. Then she disappeared up the staircase.


	9. Chapter 9

Poppy couldn’t imagine for the life of her what she’d done to piss Ginny off so much. After she’d dodged off upstairs, Poppy’d been left in a kind of stupor. She’d never had a real friend before, but that meant she’d also never been in an argument with one. A strange pain clawed at her chest.

An awkward silence fell on the group convened in the hall. Fred, as usual, was the first to attempt to diffuse the tension. He cleared his throat, then made to open the door to the infirmary. He was cut off, however, by a stout woman in an apron with piercing blue eyes. 

Madam Pomfrey stared severely down her glasses. “What are you lot doing, disturbing my patients?”

Hagrid cleared his throat. “Er, sorry, Madam. We came to see Harry.”

Madam Pomfrey sniffed. “I’m afraid that’s not possible tonight. Potter already has visitors, and he needs his rest.”

Fred began a campaign to wheedle the nurse into allowing them in as an exception, but Poppy barely heard him. Ginny’s sharp voice echoed in her head. She spoke abrubtly, interrupting Fred.

“That’s quite alright, Madam,” she said, but her voice sounded far away. “I was just leaving.”

“Harry will heal faster if he has his mates ther—Wait, what?” Fred gave her a bemused glare.

“You lot stay,” Poppy insisted. “I’ve a headache anyways, and it’s late. I was just gonna head to bed. Goodnight, all. Tell Harry I hope he feels better.”

As she turned to leave, George caught her arm. “Walk you back?” 

Poppy nodded. Fred look mutinous at his twin’s betrayal, but George ignored him. The two bade the others goodnight and headed up the staircase. 

They climbed in silence for a while before George, ever the gentlemen, tried to distract Poppy from her misery. “So, I know you said you don’t like sports.”

She smiled despite herself. “I didn’t say I didn’t like them. I said I was busy.”

“Oh, so sorry, Madame.” George turned and curtsied so low his knees hit the stair railings. “I didn’t realize I was intruding on your very precious time.”

Poppy rolled her eyes. “Get up,” she snorted. “You’re ridiculous.”

“But not so ridiculous that I couldn’t convince you to come to my Quidditch match this morning.”

Poppy bit her lip. “No, I suppose not that ridiculous.”

George looked extremely satisfied with himself. She refused to reward him with her gaze, instead taking a lefthand turn at the top of the staircase towards the North Tower. 

“Whoa, whoa, whoa, rebel.” George’s long fingers caught at the hem of her sleeve. “Going somewhere? I thought you were off to an early bed. It’ll be curfew in our towers soon.”

Fuck it. He’d been so patient, backing off from her when she’d known he wanted more. George Weasley wasn’t going to hurt her—probably. What could one night of engaging in his banter possibly harm?

Poppy spun around so she was walking backwards and beckoned him mysteriously. “C’mon, Weasley. Live a little. It smells like tonight’ll be the first snow. Don’t you want a good view?”

George raised his eyebrows, but followed her down the corridor. “Smells like snow?”

“Oh, you know what I mean.” Poppy searched for words. “When the air gets really…crispy. And a bit wet. I’m telling you, if it doesn’t snow tonight I’ll eat my boots.”  
George chuckled. “That’s a bet I’ll take.”

Poppy didn’t even need to wait for her words to take form. When they reached the circular classroom at the top of the tower, delicate flakes were already flurrying past the windows. She perched on one of the sills, shrugging triumphantly. “What did I tell you?”

“I’ll admit, I’m impressed.” George leaned against the frame a few feet away from her. “But as I recall, we had a bet, and I lost. We didn’t settle on a prize for the winner.”

Poppy had never flirted in her life, but she was pretty sure that was what was happening here. She had a choice: she could pull back, as she had always done, and simply stay in the same comfortable bubble she’d been in all her life. Or she could let go, meet George in the middle, actually move forward with her life. Poppy’s fourth year at Hogwarts had already been better than the last three combined. She thought of how much more fun it was to laugh with Ginny in the common room instead of lurking in a corner with a quill and parchment, how much better it felt to spend a Saturday morning at the Quidditch pitch than alone in her dormitory.   
Maybe moving forward was worth it.

Poppy cocked her head to the side, attempting a coy smile. “Hmmm,” she said. “I have a few ideas about how the winner could be rewarded.”

George’s eyebrows shot up. “Oh? What’s that?”

Shit. Okay, so she didn’t have any ideas. Poppy had a sudden memory of Tom, leaning over the bar on a summer afternoon as she struggled with a painting of Gringotts’ elaborate entrance. His voice echoed in her mind: “Start small, Pops.” Poppy had settled on a detailed rendering of the magnificent doors instead, and it had been her first painting to sell. She was 11 years old.

Tom was right. She would start small.

“Okay,” Poppy said. “I get to ask you some questions, and you have answer.”

“Alright, then.” George grinned at her. “Go ahead.”

“Erm, what’s your favorite holiday?”

“Easy. All Hallows Eve. The Muggle kids in the village try to play pranks. They can’t compete with Fred and I, but it’s fun to see them try. And you?”

Poppy shook her head, gesturing towards the snow outside. “I won, remember?”

George rolled his eyes. She continued. “If you had a million Galleons, what would you do with it?”

“Another easy one.” George flicked a speck of dust off the window towards her. “Open up a joke shop, and then buy my mum everything she deserves.”

Aw. Poppy’s stomach fluttered. After that, the questions came thick and fast. Favorite candy? Cockroach Clusters. No, he was yanking her wand. It was Bertie Bott’s Every Flavour Beans. Favorite shop in Hogsmeade? Zonko’s, obviously. Favorite sibling? Fred, was that even a question? Least favorite sibling? Percy, probably, but he loved them all at the end of the day. Dream vacation? The Quidditch World Cup. Or a stay at the Leaky Cauldron.

“The Cauldron??” Poppy asked incredulously.

“Sure, why not?” George said, twirling his wand. “Never been. My family’s too big and too poor to stay the night many places.”

“Well, if you came, I’d get Tom to give you free rooms,” she said confidently. “It’s a bit dim and rather dirty, but it’s a good place. Home is home all the same.”

“Agreed.” George’s voice was soft. Poppy realized he was looking at her oddly. His gaze seemed intense and yet gentle at the same time. She tore her eyes from his and felt herself flush. Swallowing, she tried a deeper kind of question.

“Erm, what do you fear the most?”

George laughed. “Seriously?”

“Yes,” Poppy said. “When we learned about Boggarts in Defense Against the Dark Arts last year, what appeared for you?”

George hesitated. For a moment, Poppy feared she’d gone too far. She was just about to tell him he didn’t have to answer when he spoke. “Fred.”

“Fred? You’re afraid of your twin?”

“No, no.” George cleared his throat. “Losing him, y’know? He’s literally always been around.”

“Oh.” Poppy’s mouth felt very, very dry. She couldn’t remember the last time someone had shared something this personal with her. She turned and stared at the white snow swirling outside the window. Suddenly the night seemed cold. She was about to apologize, say it was time for bed, when she heard his voice again.   
“And you? What’re you afraid of, rebel?”

Poppy wasn’t going to answer that. But then her mouth moved, seemingly against her will. “Everything under the bloody sun,” she blurted. “People noticing me. People knowing the truth about me. Most of all ending up like my mum.”

“It wasn’t her fault, you know,” George said gently. “The world failed her. She didn’t have anyone looking out for her. That’s not true for you.”

Poppy shook her head, suddenly feeling as if her soul had become detached from her body and was floating somewhere above the North Tower’s slanted roof. She hopped off the windowsill, striding across the room towards the window on the opposite side. She couldn’t stand the feeling of George looking at her.  
A bitterness rose in Poppy’s chest. “Maybe she did have a hard life. But she was also a drunk who’d do anything for a little attention.” Her voice was harsher than she’d meant it to be. “I mean, no wonder Greyback went for her. She made herself an easy target.”

“Greyback is a monster.”

“And if I’m half of him, what does that make me?”

She knew George had turned to face her, but she kept her back to him. Poppy didn’t want to see the pity in his eyes. She threw the window open, letting the cold, wet snow blow into the room onto her face, the scarf that held back her hair, her shaking hands. She’d pissed off Ginny, she’d grown even more attached to George. Tonight had been full of mistakes.

For a moment, there was silence, just the wind roaring through the open window and Poppy’s own pounding heart. She wondered if George had left, but finally, he spoke. 

“Poppy, you might share his DNA, but you’re ten times the wizard Greyback is, or could ever hope to be,” George said. 

Poppy sucked in a long breath, then turned to look at him. He hadn’t moved any closer, just leaned casually against the wall across the room. “Yeah? You sure about that? You don’t think I’m a monster like everyone else whispers?”

“Nope,” George said simply. “I think you need to work on your friend-making skills, though.”

Poppy smiled a little in spite of herself. “I have Ginny!”

“Oh yes, Ginny who you’ve taught to hex anyone who comes near her.” George seemed satisfied that his joke had succeeded in lightening the mood, and strolled over to her. “Mind if we close this window, rebel? I don’t know how you feel about it, but I don’t fancy hypothermia.”

Poppy bit her lip to avoid a full-blown grin. When her insides were all knotted up, George was an expert at untangling her. “I suppose that’s alright.” 

She crossed her arms, not moving from her perch on the sill. George’s brown eyes bore into hers, a slight twinkle dancing in them. Slowly, he leaned in until his body was pressed close to hers and pulled the clasp tight. His hand lingered, his palms spread against the pane behind her.

Poppy had just spent several moments standing in front of an open window during a blizzard, but she was suddenly very warm. George was so close that she could see every individual freckle across his nose, and the faint constellation-like pattern under his left eye. Poppy tried desperately to recall the last time she’d brushed her teeth. 

The corner of George’s mouth twisted into a smile, and then he pressed his lips against hers.


	10. Chapter 10

George made the decision to kiss her in about ten seconds. He hadn’t meant to get so close to her closing the window, but in her drama she’d flung it open rather wide. He really hadn’t had a choice. It helped that Poppy looked particularly beautiful, perched there trying to look cross with whisps of slivery-black hair surrounding her face.

Her face was cold from the weather, but her skin was soft. As their lips moved together, her smokey smell was overpowering. Carefully, he removed his hand from the window and brought it to the small of her back, pulling her closer to him. With the other, he reached to the back of her neck and untied the handkerchief that held back her hair. The waves fell down around her face, and he tangled his fingers there. Poppy sighed slightly against his mouth, and George’s heart beat a dangerous tattoo against his ribs.

George didn’t have much kissing experience. His only frame of reference was when he’d lost a round of Exploding Snap with the Gryffindor Quidditch team and been dared to kiss Alicia Spinnet. But by his standards, this was going pretty well. 

After what was either 30 seconds or several months—George couldn’t tell—they broke apart. He was positive his face was the same shade of red as his hair. Poppy’s cheeks were pink as well, her blue eyes wide and unreadable. She swallowed hard as she looked up at him. His chest lurched. 

“Erm,” George’s voice cracked. Bloody hell. “Was that alright?”

Poppy bit her lip. She genuinely seemed unsure. “I mean, I liked it. The kissing, I mean.”

Well, a good review. That was something. George took a deep bow. “You flatter me, madam.”

Poppy giggled softly. He liked it when she laughed. It was rare to see her actually seem happy. “I like being around you, too.”

“I should hope so,” George said. “Shouldn’t do that with someone you don’t like being around.”

“No, I reckon not.” Poppy’s eyes shone, blue as the sky above the Burrow on a sunny day. “Maybe we ought to try again? Just to make sure we like it?”

“I do take the scientific method seriously,” George agreed solemnly. He leaned back in.

George was confident that the next few hours were the best of his life. Most of it was just spent sitting there, talking. Finally, Poppy yawned hard, glancing at the pitch-black sky outside. “Shit. We’d better get to bed.”

“Yeah, you’re right,” George said, although he could’ve stayed by that window for another fifty years. “After you, Madam.”

They slipped down the staircase and traipsed through the castle, wands lit for light and Disillusionment Charms cast to avoid professors on night patrol. Halfway back to Gryffindor Tower, however, Poppy halted. George ran into her. “Ow! C’mon, rebel, we’ve gotta get back.”

“George.” Poppy’s voice was thin with fear. “Look ahead.”

And that was George saw Collin Creevey, smoking camera in hand, standing stock still in the hallway. Petrified.

“Bloody hell,” George gasped. He reached for Poppy’s arm, as if he were any protection against whatever beast lurked in the Chamber of Secrets. “Not another one.”  
“We need to get help,” Poppy said. “I can run for McGonagall. You stay here.”

“Are you thick? That thing could still be out there. You stay here, I’ll get McGonagall.”

“I can run faster, besides do you even know where McGon-”

“McGonagall is right here, Miss Grey. No need to worry.”

Shit. George spun around. Walking up the corridor in a dressing gown, wand lit high, was Minerva McGonagall. 

“Kindly remove your Disillusionment Charm, Miss Grey,” McGonagall said calmly. “And your friend as well. Excellent spellwork, I must admit.” 

Poppy quickly reappeared, and George followed a split second later. McGonagall’s eyes widened slightly as she took in the pair, but then Poppy whirled around and pointed at Collin. “Professor, I know we aren’t supposed to be out, but we were on our way to Gryffindor Tower and-”

“Fine, Poppy,” McGonagall interrupted. She looked truly shaken. “Weasley, Grey, you will each serve three hours’ detention. Separately. Both of you get to bed. Now.”

Feeling like it was best to leave the situation in McGonagall’s very capable hands, the two hurried off towards the tower. As they rounded the corner, a silver cat streaked past them in the direction of Dumbledore’s office. George spun around, pulling out his wand. 

Poppy grabbed his hand and gave it a squeeze. “It’s alright, George. Just McGonagall’s Patronus sending out the word.”

George’s blood was roaring in his ears. He fought to keep his breathing even. Letting out a deep sigh, he tried to blow it off. “Ah, yes. I thought it was Filch trying to hang me from my toes. The only thing I truly fear.”

He did not, however, lower his wand.

The Fat Lady was in a deep sleep when they arrived at the portraithole. Poppy and George had to repeat the password—pollywonk—several times before she stirred. 

“Alright, then, you don’t have to shout,” she mumbled irritably.


	11. Chapter 11

Poppy was grateful that the last few days before the winter holiday passed quickly. The castle was buzzing with rumors about what had happened to Collin, and Poppy found herself at the center of far too many of them. A gossipy gaggle of second year girls had been sitting in the common room upon their return, put two and two together, and made sure the entire school believed that Poppy herself had been responsible for the latest attack. She was given a wide berth when she walked down the halls. People moved when she sat down next to them in the Great Hall. Whispers abounded every evening near the fireplace. 

On a walk around the grounds with George the day Poppy were set to leave for break, she bemoaned her newfound celebrity status. “I mean, it just doesn’t bloody make sense,” she said, kicking through the powdery snow. “You were there too! Why I am the only one they think turned Creevey into a boulder?”

George scooped up a snowball and packed it tight. “They can’t help it, rebel. You’re just soo mysterious.”

“Oh, bug off.” Poppy shoved him lightly. “I’ve never done a thing to Lavender and her lot. What ever happened to feminism?”

“Can’t say,” George said cheerfully. “Maybe it got snowbombed.”

“What’re y—ARGH!” Poppy shrieked as the snowball exploded on top of her head. Wet mush trickled down her neck and below her cloak to slide down her back. “George, I’m going to bloody kill you. Accio snow!”

Behind George rose a wave of freezing powder. He barely had time to register what was happening before it buried him. He went down, hard, his red head disappearing under the sludge. 

Poppy’s sides were sore from laughter. She gasped for air and wiped tears from her eyes. She wasn’t sure how long she’d been giggling when she realized George hadn’t moved from his position.

He’s probably just still reacting, said one voice in Poppy’s head. Shit. He might actually be frozen to death, said another. Well, she wasn’t going to take her chances.  
Poppy rushed to his side, quickly pulling lumps of snow off of him. “George? Are you ok?” 

After what seemed like an eternity, she dusted the snow off his face. His eyes were closed, and his tongue hung comically out of the side of his mouth. Of course he was playing dead. “Oh, bloody hell. Well, if you’re dead then I guess I’m going to have to move on. You know Oliver Wood asked me to get a coffee with him next Hogsmeade trip…mayhaps I’ll take him up on that.”

“Hey!” George shot up, glaring at her. “Where’s Wood? I have to defend your honor!”

“My honor is fine,” Poppy said. “My robes, however, are full of snow. Let’s go on in so we don’t have to sit on the train drenched.” She took his hand and helped him to his feet, and they set off towards the castle, their fingers intertwined under their cloaks.

“So,” George cleared his throat as they crossed the threshold into the entrance hall. “Erm, I was wondering if you’d write to me, here at school, over the holiday. And maybe I could write you back at the Cauldron.”

“Alright, then.” Poppy smiled. “I’d like that.”

“Me too,” George said sheepishly. “But I was thinking, my dear sister might find it a bit odd that you’re writing me.”

“Well, I’d like to be writing her, too.” Poppy heard the bitterness in her voice. Ginny hadn’t spoken to her since that night outside the hospital wing. Every time Poppy tried to catch her alone, Ginny slipped away into her dormitory or started a conversation with someone else. She wasn’t very good at friendship, but she was pretty sure she hadn’t done anything to warrant the cold shoulder. Except secretly dating Ginny’s brother, of course. But if Poppy had the option, she’d rather have a friend to share it with.

George squeezed her hand. “I know, rebel. Ginny’ll come around in her own time. She’s just acting a nutter, as usual,” he said. “Erm, in the meantime though, I was wondering how you would feel about me telling Ginny and Fred and maybe Ron? About…us?”

Poppy was taken aback. She’d never told George he had to keep their relationship to himself. They didn’t even call it a relationship, really. It had been a few weeks of stealing time together, walking on the grounds, meetings in their secret room, stargazing in the North Tower. Nothing serious. Nothing like anything she’d ever done before. 

But the fact that he was asking meant that George had picked up on Poppy’s desperate aversion to any kind of attention. Poppy was nowhere near popular, but George was both well-known and well-liked amongst Gryffindors. She wasn’t exactly the kind of person his mates would’ve matched him with. 

“To be honest, I thought you didn’t want to tell anyone.” Poppy avoided his gaze. “I thought it would embarrass you.”

George chuckled incredulously, stopping on the stairs to look at her. “Me, embarrassed to be with the most beautiful witch at Hogwarts? And all before my brother’s had a proper snog? Never. I just wanted to make sure it was okay with you. I know you like a bit of privacy.” 

“I do like privacy, I suppose. It’s ok to tell your family.” Poppy felt herself blush. 

“So that’s settled,” George said, the hint of a smile in his voice. They climbed through the portrait hole into the Common Room, where students milled about in scarves and cloaks, ready to make their way home for the holidays. Lee Jordan and Fred descended upon George almost immediately, so Poppy headed to her dormitory to finish up packing. 

She was almost set to leave when she realized she couldn’t find her set of acrylic paints Tom had given her. She didn’t need them for the holiday, but not knowing where they were made Poppy anxious nonetheless. She dug through her trunk, then checked the corners under her bed. Nothing. 

By now the dormitory was emptying, and she knew she was running out of time to find them. Finally, as the door closed behind Alicia Spinnet, Poppy admitted she had no choice but to give up the search and hope she’d packed them on accident. She scrambled down the staircase and was rushing for the portrait hole when she heard George’s voice.

“Leaving without saying goodbye??”

Poppy bit her lip, turning to face him. “I’m sorry,” she said, surprised to hear her voice tremble. “It’s dumb, really, I don’t want to miss the train, but I was packing and I realized I couldn’t find my acrylics Tom gave me for my birthday last year.”

“Hey, it’s okay, rebel,” George’s tone was gentle. He took her hand, circling his thumb around the inside of her palm. “I’ll look for them everywhere while I’m wasting away here for Christmas, alright? Don’t worry about it.”

Poppy shot him a grateful smile. “I’d better run, or I won’t get home at all.”

George nodded and looked around the common room. Harry, Ron, and Hermione sat in the corner, deep in conversation. Percy sat reading pompously by the fire. Satisfied that his brothers were sufficiently distracted, he leaned in and kissed her softly on the lips.

“Have a good holiday, eh, rebel? And make sure you tell me if Oliver Wood writes you.”


	12. Chapter 12

As George had predicted, Fred and Ron took the mickey out of him after he told them about Poppy that night at dinner, though Ginny was kinder, probably for her friend’s sake. Fred swore he’d known all along. Ron, who rarely seemed to notice anything, was shocked.

“Er, ‘o is ‘oppy again? The one with all the grey hair, yeah?” Ron said thickly, shoving another bath roll into his mouth. “Ginny’s friend?”

Ginny sniffed. “Yes, Ron. Can you chew your food before you swallow it, please?”

Ron stuck his bread-coated tongue out at her. “I mean, I’m just surprised, Gin. You have to let me digest the shock. I always thought she was a bit of a nutter, that one.”

Hermione smacked his arm. Annoyance flickered in George’s chest. “You’d best watch your mouth, you git.”

“Sorry, sorry,” Ron said, raising his hands in surrender. “I just meant…I didn’t know you were friends. And besides, I always thought Fred would be more popular with the girls.”

“And who says I’m not, eh?” Fred’s voice was sharp, but his eyes were gleaming. “Let’s make it a competition. We can’t celebrate my dear brother for one night?”

He raised his goblet in the air and rose to his feet. George, hissing at him under his breath, tugged on his brother’s sleeve to pull him down, but Fred ignored him. Looking around at the sparse population of students and teachers in the Great Hall, he called out to the room. 

“Ladies and gentleman, a toast to my dearest twin, George Fabien Weasley, for successfully chatting up his first woman. To George!”

A confused first-year at the Hufflepuff table raised his goblet. At the Slytherin table, Malfoy’s party snickered. Harry, Ron, Hermione, and Ginny were red-faced with laughter. George was certain he was going to die. 

“Fred,” he groaned. “Was that really necessary?”

“I’m right chuffed for you, mate,” Fred said serenely. “I’ve been waiting for this since the train ride back to school.

“Yeah, alright, then,” George grumbled. “Ginny was the only one chatting her up on that ride.”

Ginny tossed her hair behind her shoulder smugly. “I’m quite pleased, actually. I always saw her drawings of you. She’s not good at hiding things, Poppy.”

George eyed her suspiciously, but didn’t speak. He didn’t know why Ginny was giving Poppy the cold shoulder and yet acting as if they were friends around the others. It had been so long since she’d acted like herself around them, however, that George decided to let it slide and resolved to ask her privately later.

Hermione, Fred and Ginny spent the rest of the meal peppering him with questions about Poppy, what they did together, and whether or not he’d ask her out to coffee or something in Hogsmeade in February. George was rather alarmed. He hadn’t really thought that far ahead. His only solace was that Poppy didn’t seem in any particular rush. When Hermione asked him what he was getting her for Christmas, however, George balked. 

“Erm, nothing, right? I didn’t think it was like that.”

Ginny rolled her eyes. “George, she’s your girlfriend. Are you actually that thick?”

He remained silent, considering whether or not it was possible that he actually was that thick. Fred, however, swooped in at the last moment to save him.   
“No worries, mate,” he said cheerfully. “I’ve got a plan that’ll clear that right up. And now ladies, if you’ll excuse us, my brother and I have got some business ot attend to.”

Fred ushered him out of the Great Hall and up to the stairs. George stammered his gratitude, but he wasn’t sure how much his twin could help him this time. “I dunno what I’m going to do! Hogsmeade trips aren’t allowed over break, I don’t have time to owl-order anything. I’ve bloody fucked up, haven’t I?”

“George, George, George.” Fred shook his head. “You of little faith. When have school rules stood between you and glory, especially of the romantic kind? We don’t need to owl-order anything. We simply need the help of our friends the Marauders.”


	13. Chapter 13

Poppy’s holiday in London was quiet, just as it always was. Tom was delighted to have her back, and she spent her first few evenings in the Cauldron sketching at the bar as he polished glasses and chattered away happily. Business had been good at the pub, and Tom was thinking of hiring a new waitress to keep things moving. Poppy asked if she could take on the job, thinking the pocket money might be nice. Tom seemed taken aback.

“Oh, of course ye’ can, Pops,” he said. “But y’know you never have to worry about money as long as I’m here with you, right?”

Poppy nodded, moved. She could have all the gold in the world and never be able to repay Tom for what he did. “I know, but I like the pub. It might be nice to put in some actual work for a bit. I could see how things work.”

Tom smiled. “Alright, then, lass. You can start right now. Cutlery needs washing.”

Poppy grinned and joined him behind the bar. As she dipped the silverware in and out of the hot suds, she tried to gather the courage to ask the questions that had been swimming in her head since that day in the Forbidden Forest, when she’d realized George Weasley might mean something to her after all. 

“Tom?” Her voice cracked a bit after the long silence. “Can I ask you something?”

Tom nodded. “What’s buggin’ ye?”

“I was wondering if you could tell me…about my mother.”

“Alright then, what do you want to know?” Tom asked with a smile. “Wanna hear the story about the time she sold her first painting to a rich old witch and got paid in Galleons for the first time? I know that’s yer favorite.”

“No, no, but I do love that one,” Poppy said. Her hands shook, and she worried she’d drop the forks she was scrubbing. “I wanted to know what happened with my father.”

He let out a deep sigh. In the corner, Mundungus Fletcher, their last customer of the night, snored gently. “You know what happened there, Pops.”

“I suppose. But I was wondering…how long did it take her to fall for him?”

“Oh.” Tom’s rag in the goblets slowed to a stop. “Well, y’know, Fiona was young, and when you’re young…sometimes you fancy a bit of fun. There were a few men around that time. She didn’t settle on…him…for a minute. After the first few times they saw each other she kept up her other dates, didn’t commit.”

Poppy nodded slowly. The air felt very thick. She was suddenly aware of every kiss George had ever planted on her cheek, every time his hands had run through her hair. She wondered if Greyback had done the same to her mother. “Did she trust him?” 

Tom set down his glass and rag and leaned over the bar. Poppy never thought of him as particularly old, but in that moment he looked like he’d lived a million lives.  
“I reckon she did eventually.” His voice was very quiet. “Fiona was never serious about anyone, really, but she liked Greyback a lot.” 

When he spoke the werewolf’s name, Tom’s words dripped with hate. “He was real good at that, making Fiona feel safe. I remember the night she told me he was serious about her. She reckoned he was gonna ask her to marry him.”

The thought of having married parents was so ludicrous that Poppy couldn’t contain a chuckle. The first laugh was dark and low, but then came another, and another. Suddenly she couldn’t stop giggling. She was a witch born to a Muggle and a werewolf, fifteen years old working in a pub with the hunchback who’d raised her, convinced that because a boy kissed her and called her beautiful, he’d murder her and leave her mangled body on the banks of the River Thames. And all the while a petty thief who smelled like cooking sherry was sleeping in the corner. It was all so ridiculous and fucked up and somehow hilarious at the same time.  
Tears clouded her vision and a stitch pinched her side.

Poppy thought Tom’d think she was mad, but instead, she heard him begin to chuckle too. They stood there, laughing, for a long time, until neither of them could find their breath. Finally, their giggles slowed, and Tom hobbled over to throw an arm around her shoulders.

“I love you, lass,” he said, resting his cheek against her head. “You remind me of all the best of her, and better, every day.”

Poppy breathed in his comforting Butterbeer scent. She looked up at him, and suddenly she didn’t feel like keeping George to herself anymore. “Tom,” she blurted. “I’m seeing someone, kind of. Nothing serious. But I like him, I think.”

Tom’s head snapped around, his eyes wide with shock. “Yer what? With who?? What??”

“Seeing someone, Tom.” Poppy suppressed a smile. “George Weasley. Only been a few weeks.”

“Hrrm,” Tom grumbled. “Weasley twin? Redheaded? Got the brother always causing trouble? Well…Molly ‘n Arthur are good people.”

His sudden protectiveness amused her. “He’s good people. He taught me how to throw fireworks off the North Tower and hide from Filch.”

Tom gave her a beady glare. “I know yer trying to wind me up, lass. And it won’t work. I’ve been hoping for you to get in a spot ‘er trouble since the first time I sent you off to that school.”

For the next week, Tom tried to trap Poppy into revealing more about George. He employed Madam Malkin from the robe shop to have a conversation with her about safe sex, which Poppy promptly excused herself from. Her and George had never wandered remotely close to that realm, and she’d keep it that way for a long while. She thought she’d dodged all of his efforts successfully when she woke up on Christmas day to an owl at the pub’s door. 

Poppy and Tom always opened their gifts together in the pub, beneath the big chandelier. She’d just made herself a cup of tea when she heard a pecking at the window. A gray greech owl perched regally on the knob. She vaguely recognized him as one of the birds who delivered the post to Percy Weasley at breakfast, and suddenly remembered her and George’s promise to write each other over the holidays.

“Hermes??” Poppy rushed over to let him in. Hermes fluttered over to a chair and stuck out his leg, which was weighed down with a large parcel. In scrawling, slightly messy handwriting was an address: To Poppy “Rebel” Grey. The Top Floor, the Leaky Cauldron, 1 Diagon Alley, Charing Cross Road, London

She hastily untied the package and rushed behind the bar to look for an owl treat. To Poppy’s great embarrassment, Tom walked in right as she was cutting up a piece of toast to feed Hermes. 

“Oh, got mail, then, Pops?” Tom’s grin was evil.

She shot him a glare, tightening the already-cinched waist of her bathrobe and raising her nose haughtily as she stalked over to the owl. “Just a gift from the Weasleys, I expect. From Ginny.”

“Oh, surely.” He busied himself with making a very pointed cup of tea as Poppy ripped open the parcel. Inside was a letter in the same scratchy print, and a beautiful new set of acrylic paints, just like the ones she’d lost. 

Hey Rebel,  
I hope this gets to you alright. I gave Percy a galleon to use Hermes, but I reckon he still hates me, so I wouldn’t be shocked to find out it’d been sabotaged. He refuses to join in on me, Ginny, Ron, Harry, and Hermione’s Exploding Snap tournaments. 

Anyways, I just wanted to write you a happy Christmas, and tell you I miss you quite a lot. I don’t know if these are the right kind of paints, but they look like the kind you always use. I knew I couldn’t let you run out of them or I’d be hard-pressed to ever find another threstral artist as good as you. If you ever feel like painting me anything else, let me know. I’m something of an art connoisseur. 

Tell Tom I said hi, and that my dad wants to come get a pint with him soon. I hope you like the paints and use them to make something beautiful. I have pretty high expectations, because you’re amazing at that. Can’t wait till you get back to school and I show you the new joke wand I made. I reckon it’s better than anything on the market. 

All my heart,

George

P.S. Don’t ask how I got the paints. I didn’t steal, but I did sneak out.

P.P.S. If Oliver Wood writes you, don’t respond

Poppy smiled. “Tom, I’ll be right down. Give me a moment.” 

She ran upstairs, rifling through her room for a spare bit of parchment. Hastily, she scrawled a reply.

Dear Oliver--I mean, George,

Thank you for the thoughtful gift. I love it, and hope you didn’t risk expulsion for me. Hint taken about the threstrals. I’ve attached a few other pieces for your critique. Happy Christmas. I’ll see you soon. 

XX,

Poppy

P.S. I’m sorry I didn’t get you anything, I’ll make it up to you soon

P.P.S. I actually have all four Quidditch captains and Madam Hooch writing me these days, but I’ll resist them for you

She thumbed through her folder of completed paintings, trying to figure out which would most impress him. She settled on a self-portrait she’d done the week before on the train home for the holidays, and a watercolor of a cat sleeping lazily in a strip of sunshine. Simple. Nothing too elaborate, but work she was proud of all the same. 

When Poppy thudded back down the stairs, Tom had set up her gifts on the table and started an elaborate Christmas breakfast. He eyed her smugly as she tied the parchment to Hermes’s leg and sent him off. “So, Ginny get you anything good?”

Poppy wrinkled her nose at him. “A new set of paints, actually,” she said. “Quite lovely.”

Tom smiled knowingly, and sat a steaming plate of eggs and toast on the long table in the middle of the pub. They exchanged gifts, Tom opening his new cauldron and book (1,001 Magical Cocktails for the Modern Wizard) first. Poppy’d also done a few new paintings for him, and knitted him a pair of socks. He was quite pleased, and put the socks on right there at the table. 

For Poppy, Tom had gotten a new sketchbook with a brilliant gold cover, a set of brushes, and a beautiful necklace with a small cursive P pendant engraved with delicate flowers so that it looked more like the letter was woven from foliage than metal. “Oh, Tom,” Poppy breathed, admiring the way the necklace caught the light. “It’s gorgeous. I hope you didn’t waste gold on me.”

He shook his head. “Didn’t cost me a penny. I thought it was time you owned a family heirloom.”

Poppy nearly dropped the necklace. “What?”

“It was your mum’s,” Tom said. “She wore a bracelet with that charm on it nearly every day. Must’ve left it at home the night she…y’know. I found it when I was cleanin’ out her room to make your nursery. Kept it in my dresser till I thought you’d be old enough to want it. After ‘ou asked about her the other day I went out to buy the new chain.”

Poppy ran her thumb along the pendants curves. A great wave of emotion swelled in her chest, threatening to close up her throat. She couldn’t speak. She tried to imagine Fiona waiting tables and refilling Firewhiskies while the P dangled at her wrist. Her mother had touched this, worn it nearly every day. As she traced the edges of the letter for the third time, a thought struck her. 

“Tom, why is it a P?”

“Ah,” Tom said through a mouthful of sausage. “I dunno. She’d had that since I met her, long before I met you. Might’ve been her maiden name initial, I s’pose. Fiona didn’t like giving out too much information.”

“Makes sense, I guess.” Poppy clasped the chain behind her neck and let the pendant come to rest just above her heart. She leaned back in her seat and swallowed a hearty gulp of tea. Upstairs, she could hear the inn’s few holiday guests beginning their Christmas mornings. “Thank you, Tom. It’s a lovely Christmas, really.”

“Ah, but it isn’t done yet, lass,” Tom said with a toothy grin. “Give me just a mo’, and I’ll bring the rest of your gift.”

Poppy raised her eyebrows incredulously, but let him disappear up the stairs without asking any questions. She’d just begun to clean up their dishes from breakfast and set up for the slow trickle of customers they expected that day when Tom tottered down the stairs, a soft, grey cat with striking yellow-green eyes nestled in his arms. Her heart lept.

“Tom! You didn’t!” 

He laughed. “Ah, of course I did, Pops. I thought you might like a friend at school.”

Poppy rushed over to stroke the cat’s velvety head. “Does it have a name?”

“The bloke at the Magical Meanagerie called ‘im Cinders.”

The cat mewed, as if corroborating the innkeeper’s story. Poppy planted a gentle kiss on his furry head. “Cinders sounds just fine.”


	14. Chapter 14

The holidays seemed to crawl by that year. George’s parents sent him and his siblings a letter and postcard from Romania, but it didn’t feel the same to spend the holiday at schools. Besides, pranks with Fred weren’t as fun when there wasn’t anyone in the castle to see them. 

It didn’t help that he missed Poppy an embarrassing amount. The self-portrait she’d sent him had quickly become one of his favorites, smiling and pulling faces at him from his bedside table. George was careful to hide it from his brothers, lest he become the subject of more jokes.

After Christmas, Hermione went into the hospital wing (something about turning into a cat? Honestly, Ron and his lot were almost more troublesome than the twins at times, and that was a title Fred and George prided themselves on), and Ron and Harry spent hours visiting her. George was perfectly content to spend the days in the common room with his brother, developing some new joke ideas, but he was also counting down to the beginning of term, when Poppy’s silvery hair and warm face would return to the castle.

Finally, January dawned, bleak and watery, and Gryffindors began trickling back into the tower. The night before classes were set to begin, George was reading Zonko’s: A History when someone dropped something gray and fuzzy into his lap. 

“Bloody hell, Fred!” he cried, leaping to his feet. The furry creature disappeared in a pale streak under his armchair. He heard a very familiar laugh, and looked over to find he was staring directly into a pair of piercing, stormy blue eyes. “Hi.”

“Hi,” Poppy said, giggling. She dropped to her knees and began trying to coax the cat out from under his seat. “C’mere, Cinders, there’s a good boy. Yes, it’s alright. The mean monster won’t throw you again.”

Cinders mewled suspiciously, but allowed Poppy to pluck him up and hold him. She smiled adoringly, scratching him behind the ears, and George’s chest warmed. “So, new cat, eh?”

“Yes,” Poppy said, settling onto the arm of his chair and gesturing for George to sit down. “Tom got him for me. I wanted to surprise you. I’ve never had a pet, you see.”

Cinders purred. His eyes seemed to glow smugly as he looked at George, nestling more comfortably into Poppy’s lap. “Well,” George said. “He’s certainly cute. Next time, though, perhaps tell me before you plop him on me.”

“Duly noted,” Poppy said serenely. She planted a kiss on Cinders’ head. “How was your holiday? I wondered how the Exploding Snap was going. And I want to see that joke wand.”

“A bit dull, to be quite honest. I missed you.”

Poppy kicked off her shoes and swung her legs over George’s lap. He breathed in her smokey scent as she leaned closer. “I missed you as well. Catch me up on everything.”

They sat there for a few hours, just talking and playing with Cinders, who warmed up to George surprisingly fast. Poppy seemed lighter than usual. Perhaps it was the lightly crowded common room, or her break at home, but she seemed more open, less anxious about what others thought. When Fred joined them, she didn’t recoil, but instead let him take a turn shooting sparks from the tip of his wand for Cinders to chase. Fred was the cat’s clear favorite—in less than twenty minutes, he’d snuggled up onto his lap and fallen fast asleep.

By midnight, the room had emptied, and Fred and Cinders had stretched out on a couch, wizard snoring and cat purring loudly. George had just finished explaining Hermione’s trip to the hospital wing when Poppy glanced over and noticed that they were finally alone. She slid off the arm of the chair so she was fully resting in his lap, her body leaning against his chest. He felt delightfully warm, as if he was sitting in a hot bath or in the kitchen at the Burrow while his mother cooked. Poppy seemed equally pleased, letting out a little sigh when George reached up to run his fingers through her hair. After a few moments, she broke the silence.

“George, if I tell you something crazy, will you hear me out without thinking I’m a nutter?”

“Hmm,” George said. “I already think you’re a nutter, does that make a difference?”

He couldn’t see her face, but he swore he could feel Poppy roll her eyes. “Git. Listen, Tom got me this necklace for Christmas…”

She pulled a delicate gold chain from the neck of her robes. The letter P, embossed in flowers, glinted in the firelight. “Erm,” George said lamely. “That’s quite nice.”

“Thank you.” Poppy looked up at him and smiled softly. She took a deep breath, clearly steadying herself. George squeezed her hand, trying to relieve some of the anxiety. “It was my mum’s. And George…I think it’s magic. I think my mum was a witch, or at least related to one.”

George remained silent. He wasn’t sure how to process the information. On the one hand, the wizarding world wasn’t very big, and there weren’t many families left in it. People rarely disappeared without being cut off, and there was always a record of their existence. On the other hand, there were some who lived off the grid, or tried to. George had never lost a parent, so he didn’t know how Poppy felt. He simply nodded for her to go on.

“Look, I know it’s insane, but feel this necklace, George. You can feel it.” There was a tinge of desperation in Poppy’s voice. Her hands shook as she moved his fingers towards her chest, where the necklace sat, and she placed the locket in his palm. 

For a moment, George worried he was going to have to tell her that he didn’t feel anything. Just as he was trying to find a way to let her down easy, he felt it—a faint pulse beneath the pendant’s surface, as if a tiny heart was beating inside. The metal was warm in an almost fleshy way. It was slightly unnerving. George slowly pulled his hand away, clasping Poppy’s close to her lap. “I feel it. It feels…odd. Are you sure it’s not cursed?”

She shook her head vigorously. “Tom would never give me something cursed. Besides, I’ve had it a week now and I haven’t grown scales or anything.”

George sighed. “I suppose. I do think there’s magic here. I don’t know what that means, though. Muggles get ahold of magical items all the time, and never know what they are,” he said. Poppy’s face fell, and he went on quickly. “But if you think this could be a clue about your mum, I’ll do anything I can to help you find her. Where d’you reckon we should start?”

Poppy threw her arms around his neck. George felt his ears turn red. “I mean, I guess we’d go where anyone would start research. The library.”


	15. Chapter 15

By the end of January, it became apparent to Poppy that George had never spent much time in the library. Madam Pince was instantly suspicious the first time they went in together, and followed them around like a hawk. After two or three trips this way, she gave up, though she still eyed them warily from her perch behind her desk. Poppy took care of finding the books, while George helped her leaf through them and fed Cinders treats he’d snuck from the Great Hall.

They spent a few hours in the library a week, when they could steal time between classes and time with friends. George, in a remarkable stroke of genius, had suggested they divide their time between old Daily Prophet clippings from her birth and earlier, old Hogwarts files and awards, and genealogies of the Wizarding world (which usually focused obsessively on pureblood status and the pair generally found distasteful). A month in, they had found no trace of a witch named Fiona, a necklace like hers, or a wizarding name that began with P and seemed likely to have a missing family member. The search was made especially difficult by the fact that Poppy had no idea what they were looking for. Tom had only a handful of her mum’s photos and drawings, and none of the witches grinning back at her from the Prophet clippings had Fiona’s round face, curvy figure, and piercing blue eyes. 

On a Thursday night the first week of February, Poppy was dangerously close to giving up. Ginny, who’d taken up speaking to Poppy right after the holidays as if nothing was wrong, and Fred had joined them in the library for the evening. Cinders, completely enamored with George’s twin, was cuddled up on his feet. The two that they were looking for information about Fiona’s mother, but not much else. Fred handed Poppy an Ancient Runes award from 1974. 

“Remus Lupin,” she read bitterly. “I mean, who gives a rat’s furry arse?”

Beneath the table, Cinders meowed at the mention of food. George squeezed her hand comfortingly. “We’ll find her, rebel. Just gotta keep looking.”

Fred nodded solemnly in agreement, leafing through more papers. “She’s gotta be out there somewhere. Unless, of course, you were a product of ghostly or supernatural coitus, which seems rather difficult, from a physics standpoint.”

Poppy winced. He was closer to the truth than he realized. George, obviously noticing his twin’s gaff, yawned loudly and made a show of stretching his arms high above his head. 

“You know what,” he said. “I’m dead tired and the library’s closing soon. Let’s head out. The parchment’ll be here tomorrow, eh?”

Ginny and Fred exchanged meaningful glances. “Y’know, you’re right,” Ginny said, ducking under the table to grab Cinders. “Why don’t you two head out, and Fred and I’ll stay to clear up?”

Poppy eyed the pair suspiciously, but said nothing, scooping Cinders out of Ginny’s arms and grabbing her bag. Subtlety was not a Weasley strong trait. Positive she was being set up, Poppy followed George into the corridor outside. Cinders strutted down the hall in front of them, as if leading a parade. After a moment of comfortable silence, George cleared his throat.

“Erm,” he said, his voice a little higher than usual. “Y’know there’s a Hogsmeade trip coming up?”

“Ooo, yes.” Poppy loved visiting Hogsmeade. It reminded her of home in Diagon Alley. The village would be snowy, the air crisp and sweet-smelling. She’d get Ginny a huge bag of sweets from Honeydukes, and some treats for Cinders. Poppy was deep in thought that for a moment, she forgot George was speaking to her.

“Rebel? Hellloooo? You in there?” He waved his hand in front of her face. Poppy grinned at him as she returned to reality.

“Sorry, sorry. What were you saying?”

“Erm, I was wondering if you’d like to get a tea or something while we’re there. No Fred or Ginny. Just us.”

“Oh.” Poppy was pretty sure that met the formal definition of a date. “Okay. That sounds really nice.”

George smiled. His ears were a warm shade of pink. “Alright then, that’s settled. Meet me in the entrance hall at 10 o’clock that morning.”

Poppy curtsied. “Anything for you, my good sir.”

The days before the trip passed in a haze of anxiety. Poppy realized she wasn’t sure what happened on a date; it wasn’t as if she had many friends of dating age. Tom had certainly never been out. She found herself wishing she’d taken that chat with Madam Malkin. What would she wear? Would he even notice what she wore? Would she be expected to stare into his eyes sappily? They weren’t really that kind of couple. What if people stared at them?

It’s just George, Poppy tried to remind herself. But for some reason, that made it even worse. It was George, her best friend’s brother, her fragile connection to having an actual life at school. She found herself tossing and turning for hours that Friday night, and summoned Ginny to her dormitory early the next morning to help her get ready.

“Poppy, it’s George,” Ginny said, rifling through Poppy’s trunk for a scarf to hold back her hair as she did her makeup. “He can barely tell his arse from his head. He’s not going to care how you look. Here, do a little blusher. There you go.” 

Poppy carefully swiped the pale coral powder across her nose. She didn’t know much about makeup—she was borrowing Ginny’s kit—and she knew even less about what would look good on her. Experimentally, she leaned towards the mirror, closed one eye, and tried to imagine how she might look from George’s perspective. 

Ginny snorted. “Since when did you care so much about how you looked?”

“I dunno, actually,” Poppy said sheepishly. “I guess it’s just…easier to worry about this than everything else?”

“Everything else?” Ginny wiggled her eyebrows and began to make Poppy’s bed. “You mean your fear of commitment? Or are you talking about your reluctance towards intimacy? Oooo, I’ve got it, it’s your absolute hatred for attention, isn’t it?”

Poppy glared at her and returned to her preparations. Satisfied her makeup was understated enough to avoid turning heads—maybe Ginny had been right—she let her hair down, allowing her bangs to fall across her forehead and brushing out the waves. “How is this? Do I look alright?”

“You look beautiful, as always,” Ginny said. “Now, do you remember the rules?”

“Yes. No pranking anyone, no running into the loo to avoid him, no freaking out.”

“Right on. And the most important one?”

“No telling you any of the details.”

Her friend beamed, handing Poppy her earmuffs. “You’re ready, then.”


End file.
